


Between A Rock & A Hard Place

by catarrhini



Category: Italian Renaissance Art, Political RPF, Political RPF - Canadian 21st c., The Works of Michelangelo, justin trudeau - Fandom
Genre: Bad Puns, M/M, gratuitous descriptions of statue dick, like seriously bad puns you don't even know, marble worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7920238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catarrhini/pseuds/catarrhini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Farewell, David,” he whispered, his throat tightening. He was staring up into the statue’s eyes with a desperate desolation, not yet ready to let go of the few brief moments he’d had with the monolith.</p><p>Then, David winked at him.</p><p>Wait, David WINKED at him. Justin’s face fell blank with stupefied shock. He hadn’t imagined it; he knew what he had seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between A Rock & A Hard Place

Justin Trudeau checked his watch for the tenth time in half as many minutes and adjusted his tie. Sophie sat next to him in the backseat of the sharp, black town car, punching a text into her phone.

“An official from the museum just called Sanjay to say we’re to be dropped at a side entrance of the gallery,” she said, eyes still fixed on her phone. “There’s been a flock of teen girls and photographers at the entrance since six this morning.”

“Why is my PA texting you?” He wondered.

“Because you’re still in Lalaland,” she answered with a sly smile. “You should probably look at your phone at some point.” He sighed, the nervous ball of energy growing ever larger as they hurtled down the streets of Florence, closer and closer to _him_. He clenched his hands into fists, but his dry skin nearly cracked, and the frazzled nature of his nerves didn’t abate.

“My hands are dry again, Soph,” he said. She dug around in her handbag for a small bottle of hand lotion, which she handed to her husband.

“Keep it,” she offered. He rubbed the lotion into his chapped skin and slipped the bottle into his jacket pocket. They sat in silence while the car sped on.

Justin grimaced as they drove past the throng waiting in front of the grand Galleria. Even here, thousands of miles from Canada, they were wearing that stupid shirt with his face plastered all over it. _Those kids and their damned flower crowns._  He thought, not for the first time, that perhaps it wasn’t such a wise idea to release his itinerary for state visits to the public when it seemed that Trudeaumania had become an international pandemic. He’d have to sort it out with his staff later.

“Justin, if I see another one of those damned shirts, I swear...” Sophie said with an exhausted smile as they had exited the small, black car with its darkened windows and austere interior, but she didn’t finish the thought, as their staff began piling out of the two cars that had been following them.

“Prime Minister. Mrs. Grégoire-Trudeau,” a smartly dressed woman greeted them with a curt nod when the group entered through the small side entrance. Her accent was crisp and studiously English. It probably galled her that every so often, a bit of her native Italian showed through. Every inch of her was efficient and sterile and designed to be blandly pleasant. She spoke again in a metered, rehearsed cadence, “My name is Helena, and from all of us at the Galleria dell’Accademia di Firenze, we would like to warmly and sincerely welcome you to Florence and to our gallery. Shall I begin your tour?”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Helena,” he thanked the woman honestly. “Sophie, our staff and I appreciate you closing down the Galleria for us today.” The woman bowed her head with a small smile and turned to lead the group down a narrow corridor. Justin nodded at his wife before following the woman as she led them into the vaulted halls of the Galleria, their entourage of Italian government officials and security and publicity personnel trailing behind at a polite distance.

“The Galleria dell’Accademia was established in 1784 by Pietro Leopoldo, who was, at that time, the Grand Duke of Tuscany,” she said as they entered the first gallery hall. “As you will soon see, the Galleria boasts a number of 15th and 16th century Florentine paintings and sculptures, from artists such as del Sarto, Uccello and Ghirlandaio. Most of the artwork is valuable because it presents a unique look into life in this city at that time.” In a soft, excited voice, she added, “And then there is, of course, David.”

_David._

The name dragged a thrill of titillation through Justin. Honestly, he’d been thrumming with nerves all morning, a fact which had prompted several concerned glances from his wife over the course of breakfast. “You’re acting strange,” she had said, but she had dropped it soon after.

She elected not to mention that he’d been acting strangely in the weeks leading up to that point, starting around the time they’d begun planning his state visit to Italy. She’d often find him in the conservatory, lost in thought, sighing wistfully while he absently stroked the rim of a marble urn while staring into the distance. Justin would never admit to her that he’d been distracted and fixated and mildly obsessed with the thought that he’d soon be in the same room as… _him._

 _David_. The name filled him with awe and a shaky, sweaty kind of fear. He said it again and again and again, and it rolled through him like a stormy sea.

And now, after all those weeks of planning, of managing to convince Alexandria and Sanjay to loosen the schedule a bit and book a side trip to Florence (despite there being no possible diplomatic reason for the detour), after all the interminable waiting, he was now in the same building as the sculpted object of his obsession.

_He’s here._

The thought repeated over and over in his head, with the beating of his racing heart. He was coming unglued. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so on edge, so breathless with expectation. Waiting for the election results had come close, he wagered, but not really. He was finding it impossible to focus on the paintings Helena was showing them, just wishing she’d take them straight to _him_.

“Justin,” Sophie said as she grabbed his arm. “She asked you a question.” Justin snapped his attention to the patient docent.

“Terribly sorry,” he said affably, using his lethally persuasive smile and mischievous blue eyes on the woman. “You were saying…?”

“I asked for your thoughts on this painting,” Helena told him, cheeks flushing soft pink. “You seem quite taken with it.” She gestured to the work of art in front of him, and he actually looked at it for the first time with eyes that weren’t glazed with inattention.

“It’s, uh, very nice,” he said, scraping his mind for some kind of comment that didn’t leave him sounding like an idiot. “Is it for sale?” He joked. Helena smiled warmly, and the corners of her eyes crinkled.

“I’m afraid not,” she laughed. “The _Cassone Adimari_ provides us with a priceless insight into daily life in Italy in the mid-1400s. It would be a crime to remove it from the public arena.” Justin threw up his hands in mock defeat.

“Oh, well,” he sighed. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

“Indeed.” Addressing the group, she said, “Now, if you’d like, I can show you to the main attraction.”

Justin was stricken. He felt that the air, suddenly, had vanished from his lungs. His mouth ran dry, and he didn’t trust his own voice to speak, so he merely nodded. She led them through a hallway, and his heart stuttered when they turned and suddenly _he_ was there, a towering monolith down at the end of the long corridor. Justin’s knees grew weak.

Scaling Everest would have been easier than closing the remaining distance between himself and _David._

And when Justin finally stood at David’s feet, he could only bring himself to reverently gaze up at the polished marble expanse of thighs and chest and aquiline nose and tousled hair. He fought the irrational urge to fall to his knees and worship the god before him. He could scarcely breathe. The statue was so lifelike, he wasn’t surprised when his eyes started playing tricks on him, thinking he could make out a faint pulse in the veins of David’s hand. But that was ridiculous.

Helena carried on, telling the small group about the statue that towered over them, frozen in time, an eternal hero. Justin didn’t hear a single word, but it didn’t matter anyway. He already knew everything there was to know about this moon pale, sublime creation. Dates, locations, sculpting methods, names, controversies… These all ran through his head. He knew it all. But knowing everything about the six tons and seventeen feet of marble that stood before him had not prepared him for the overwhelming _existence_ of David.

He wished he could shout at the group to just shut up, to just take in the spiritual moment in silence, but he knew the chatter would keep him grounded in reality, keep him from slipping into the fantasies that plagued his waking thoughts and fevered dreams. Already, he was imagining things, surely, because statues didn’t just suddenly start breathing of their own volition.

“Justin,” Sophie said with a long-suffering sigh, “we’re going, dear.” He whipped around to see that the group had already begun to trek back down the corridor to the next gallery hall. With a pang of loss, he nodded, casting one look back at his stony obsession.

“Farewell, David,” he whispered, his throat tightening. He was staring up into the statue’s eyes with a desperate desolation, not yet ready to let go of the few brief moments he’d had with the monolith.

Then, David winked at him.

Wait, David _winked_ at him. Justin’s face fell blank with stupefied shock. He hadn’t imagined it; he knew what he had seen. Justin had been looking right at him, and he knew without a doubt that that slab of marble had just _winked._  His heart banged like a drumbeat in his rib cage all over again, and in a stupor, he stumbled backwards.

“Did you just wink at me?” He demanded, but the statue remained just that, a perfect image of passivity. He heard Sophie’s footsteps approaching.

“Hey, are you okay?” She asked seriously. “You’re acting really weird today, Justin. Are you sick? I’m sure we can shorten the visit if you need to go home.” He looked at her, mouth still hanging open and eyes as round as saucers.

Finally, he said, “Yeah, I think I may be sick. I’m seeing things.”

“Seeing things?” She asked with a tone of concern.

He pointed a shaking finger up at the statue behind him. “He just _winked_ at me, Sophie.” Her forehead scrunched as she was clearly trying to figure out what his angle was.

“Is that some kind of weird joke?” She asked. “I don’t get it.”

Justin glanced back at the statue, but of course, it hadn’t moved. He sighed, then looked back to his deeply concerned wife and shook his head to clear it of the last few minutes of foolishness. Clearly, the hours of tossing and turning in bed the night before had left him irrational and vulnerable to fantasy. Finally, he took Sophie’s hand, and the two exited the hall. He could have sworn that he felt eyes on his back the entire way down the hall, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back.

Helena eventually lead them back to the foyer where their tour had started, and by the time that they were all congregated, waiting for their car to arrive, the feeling of being watched had grown into a bone-deep itch that left Justin even more distracted than before.

He hadn’t been imagining it. David _had_ winked at him. Justin was sure of it, and he just needed to see him again, the way he needed food and water and oxygen.

“Helena, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Could you tell me where the restroom is?” She nodded graciously.

“Why, yes,” she answered. “Go through this doorway here. Take two left turns and then a right, and it will be at the end of the hall. You can’t miss it.” He hurriedly nodded and turned towards the hall. “I can show you, if you’d-”

“No!” He snapped. Then, sheepishly, he added, “Thank you. I can find it.” As he walked down the corridor, he could hear Sophie making apologies for his behavior and explaining to the sympathetic docent that jet lag had left him not feeling very well. Good old Sophie.

He retraced his steps back through the Galleria, not really sure where David stood. He knew he needed to be quick about it, before the others came looking for him. He passed _The Rape of the Sabines,_ and remembered with a surging heart that David was near. He was lucky, and he found himself now standing in the long corridor with its off-white walls and vaulted ceilings.

All the way down at the end, David stood watch over everything. He was iconic and eternal, everything Justin could never be. He was absolute.

Justin swallowed hard and closed the distance between them, his pulse quickening with every step he took.

“Hello, David,” he said softly, reverently. “I’m back again. It’s just you and me now.” David remained frozen, glossy planes of rippling muscle; full, pouting lips; strong, agile hands; intense eyes; small, soft cock; permanent bed head. Justin’s chest was growing tight with irritation at each passing second. “I know you can hear me.”

Nothing. Not a wink, not a breath, not a single heartbeat. David was frozen as he ever was. Humiliation began creeping up that left Justin’s cheeks burning red. What was wrong with him? Had he really convinced himself that a world famous, centuries old statue was somehow sentient and interested in having a tête-à-tête? He knew he’d better get back to the foyer before he really embarrassed himself. Even Sophie wouldn’t be able to explain away why her husband had been caught talking to a sculpture. He sighed deeply and then turned to leave, casting a parting glance at the marble slab.

The marble slab that was now smirking at him.

He snapped back around and cried, “I knew it!” The smirk morphed into a full-blown smile. Justin frantically wondered if he should run for his life, not keen to be squashed to death by a five-meters-tall golem.

“Busted,” David said in a raw, cobwebby voice that had clearly not been used in a long time. His accent was thick and pleasant. Justin fought against his rising panic. David looked directly at him, his countenance once more stern. Slowly, severely, he asked, “Do you get it? _Bust_ ed. Because I am sculpture.” Justin found that he had quite lost the ability to speak. David sighed impatiently. “Bust is type of sculpture.”

“No, I get it,” Justin said breathily, blue eyes wide and face blank.

“Then why you don’t laugh?” David snapped.

“It just wasn’t very funny,” he answered, brain still muddled by shock.

“I don’t criticize your work!” He bellowed, milky white forehead gathering in anger.

“I’m sorry!” Justin swore, finally coming to his senses. “Maybe I just don’t have a very good sense of humor!” David pursed his lips and rolled his eyes.

“Maybe you have, maybe you not have,” he hissed. “Your humor, I don’t care. Your manners, I care.”

“Really, I am _so_ sorry,” Justin said, palms raised in a display of honesty. “How can I apologize to you?” David appraised him for a moment, one eyebrow quirked in silent amusement.

“Come here,” he commanded in a tone that left no room for argument. Justin shakily walked up to the barrier in front of the dais upon which David was now seating himself. “No. Come _here_.” He patted his thigh, and the resounding clanging of marble worried Justin. Wordlessly, he climbed over the barrier and stood before David, craning his neck up to look at the inscrutable face.

“What now?” Justin asked, his voice now raspy with frightened excitement. David smirked again, and he slowly, teasingly spread his thighs wide. Justin’s eyes went wide, taking in the fact that the Statue of David was now coyly presenting his flaccid cock for Justin’s benefit. “Wh- What do you want me to do?”

“I think you know,” he answered, his voice now low and dangerous. “You can not stop looking at it. Why not you taste it?” Justin nearly choked.

“I’ve never been with a man!” He blurted. “Other than that time in college. And once in the Oval Office. _Well,_ twice. _Well,_  three times if handjobs count.” David lifted an eyebrow.

“This, I don’t care,” he said with a bored drawl. “I am marble. I am not man.”

“But you’re too high up,” Justin pleaded. “And you’re so _tall._ ”

“Ah, I forget myself,” he replied. “One moment.” David squeezed his hands into fists and screwed his eyes shut. He panted and groaned in a way that made Justin grow uncomfortably warm, and a few seconds later, he watched David shrink down, down, down, until he’d become the size of a normal, red-blooded Roman. He looked down at Justin from his perch atop the dais, that damned smirk bigger than he’d ever seen it. He reached a moon white hand out to Justin.

The sensation of cool marble on his hot flesh sent chills through his stressed body. David effortlessly yanked him up onto the dais. He shifted backwards and lay down, his gleaming, pale legs promptly falling open again to either side of Justin, who reverently gazed down at David. He kneeled closer to David’s waiting body, bracing his sweaty palms against the hard columns of David’s thighs. “What should I…?”

“Lick.”

“And that’ll be enough?”

“ _Cazzo di merda_! Not talking. Only doing,” David groaned, and Justin was duly chastised. He leaned down over David’s lap and gave the small marble appendage an experimental swipe of the tongue. It tasted of nothing in particular, but it was smooth and cool, and Justin was shocked to find his own body responding to the needy sigh that fell from David’s full lips. “ _Sì,_ like this.” In a burst of gusto, he tongued the carved cock and balls, lathing every crevice with his tongue and lips, covering his own face with smears of saliva in the process. He craned his neck and sucked feverishly on the stony balls, swirling his tongue around the cool sac. He opened his eyes to gauge David’s face, and he was shocked to see that the milky marble cock now stood proud and firm from the nest of sculpted curls at its base.

“Oh!” Justin gasped, his own cock flooding with warmth and interest. “My, you’re a grower.”

“A what?” David demanded, but he decided he didn’t care before Justin could answer. “You have _lubrificazione_?”

Justin shrugged and shook his head. “That’s not a thing.”

“Yes, it… Makes things go. Like oil,” he explained, searching for the words. “For the sex.”

“Oh!” Justin said triumphantly. “Lubrication!”

“This!”

Justin’s face fell. “Wait, are we going to…?”

“Make sex, yes,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Really, it is least you can do. You really offend me.”

“I guess I can’t just buy you a beer, can I?” Justin asked, more to himself than the statue laying before him with a raging, sizeable hard on. “Besides, when an Italian Renaissance sculpture comes to life and begs you to fuck it, well, what do you do?”

“You fuck it,” David growled. “Now where is _lubrificazione_?”

“Uhh,” Justin hummed as he patted the pockets of his suit pants and blazer. “Ah! Hand cream!” David plucked the small bottle from his fingers and examined it quizzically. “That’s convenient.”

“This is strange bottle. How to open it?” He grumbled. Justin leaned forward to guide the pale hands, but instead, David grasped him by the wrist and yanked the man against his reclined body. Justin panted hard in the statue’s firm embrace. When David whispered, “Kiss me,” Justin’s stomach flipped. He glanced down at the full, shapely parted lips, and his mouth watered. He leaned forward slowly and pressed his own lips against the cool marble. David nipped his lower lip gently, and Justin gasped. Setting Justin back between his thighs, he commanded, “Pull down your pants and move to your knees. I take you in style of dog.”

“Okay,” he gasped, fumbling with the buckle of his belt. David held out the bottle for Justin to flick open, and the statue unceremoniously squeezed its full contents onto his girthy, carved phallus, fisting his length to spread the cream around. He tossed the now empty bottle down the length of the hallway. Justin yanked down his slacks and underwear, leaving his hard, swollen cock bobbing under the tent of his shirt.

“Hands and knees,” David ordered, and Justin turned around and found his place at the edge of the high dais. He flinched when he felt a cold hand grasp his hip and pull him backwards, and a consuming rush accompanied the feeling of blunt marble pressing against his hole. David slowly slipped his middle finger past the ring of tight muscle, and Justin shivered at the slick, slow breach of his body.

“David,” he whimpered.

“I know,” he replied, smug, amused. He slipped a second finger into Justin’s tight pucker, and Justin’s hands nearly slipped from the dais, sweaty as he’d become. David scissored his fingers inside Justin, and it made the man see stars.

“Please, David, more!” Justin begged, and he could hear David softly laugh.

“If you think you are ready,” he said coyly. Justin nodded frantically, and he pushed back against David, trying to fuck himself on the hard, smooth fingers. “Please to be calm,” David admonished as he pulled his fingers slowly from Justin’s hole. He grabbed Justin’s hips and carefully guided the man’s body down onto his rigid dick. Justin whimpered, eyes screwed shut in pleasure from the gorgeous, gentle burn of being stretched open on David’s divine cock.

“Please fuck me now, David,” he prayed, digging his nails into the granite below them. “I need…” He grunted low and filthy when David snapped his hips once again Justin’s trembling ass. “ _God_ , yeah, like that.” Again, David snapped his hips a single time, and Justin hissed. “Please, David. _Please_ don’t stop.”

“Well, you say so pretty. How I can say no?” He purred, and he tenderly began to slide his cock in and out of Justin’s pink little pucker, delighting in watching his lily white, glossy dick disappear inch by inch inside the shaking man’s taut body, mesmerized by the slow rhythm he’d built.

“Harder, please, David!” Justin groaned. “Need it so badly.” David took mercy on the moaning man and started to thrust. Shocks of wet heat dripped down Justin’s fraying nerves, and his legs shook and hands grasped for purchase as David fucked him ever harder, now grunting with his own rising pleasure. David pulled back his hand and gently swatted at Justin’s quivering thigh. His gasp melted into a low, fragile moan, and his hands finally slipped, so he ended up chest down and ass up as David rode him hard. Hands now free, Justin grasped his own rigid dick and began squeezing, rubbing, pumping in time with David’s rough rutting. “Oh, _David_ ,” he sobbed, now pumping his dick faster. “I’m so close.”

“Come for me,” David commanded, and Justin obeyed. In a surge of fever, velvet bliss exploded from his heavy balls and spurted from his cock in pearly slashes onto the granite dais. His vision went dim, and he panted for breath around the guttural moans that had overtaken him.

After a moment had passed, and his breathing had been subdued, he felt David slide from his body. He scrambled back up onto his palms and turned to look at the statue. “You didn’t come.”

David smirked. “I tell you. Am statue, not man.” He tenderly lifted Justin up to his full height and guided him with firm hands down the side of the dais onto the floor below.

“Can we do this again in the future?” Justin asked breathlessly, scrambling to straighten his clothes as David began trembling, growing to his full seventeen feet again. He began returning to his iconic pose.

“Not likely,” was his terse reply.

“Why not?” Justin demanded, growing upset at the statue’s blatant dismissal of him.

“Napoleon was better,” he answered with his infuriating smirk, and with that parting shot, he froze completely again, untainted, unchanged, untouchable. Justin wanted to scream.

“And you complain about _my_ manners, you rude slab of marble!” He growled, and a moment later, he heard footsteps rounding the corner and coming down the hall towards him.

“Prime Minister!” Helena called. “We thought you might have gotten lost. Please, I can guide you to the foyer.” He snapped around to look at the approaching woman. Vaguely, he nodded and allowed himself to be led from the chamber of that arrogant, pushy, gorgeous asshole of a sculpture.

“Justin, you’re flushed,” Sophie cried. “I think you should go to the doctor.”

“No, no. I’m okay, Soph,” he promised. “Just feeling kinda… stoned… in a way.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to apologize to Justin Trudeau personally for writing this fic, and I beg for his understanding, on the grounds that I can't be held responsible for my actions under the influence of half a bottle of scotch.


End file.
